


Ante Meridian

by fairlead



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, eventual jonmartin...?, jon is from post s4 and goes back to literally episode 1, references to canon and canon typical trauma- you know how it is, this is self indulgent as hell
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-01-26 15:00:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21375997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairlead/pseuds/fairlead
Summary: "Statement of Nathan Watts, regarding an encounter on Old Fishmarket Close, Edinburgh. Original statement given April twenty-second, 2012. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London.Statement begins.”That’s when something went wrong.Or, Jon goes back.
Comments: 78
Kudos: 532





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> hey this is just so super self-indulgent and Also my first time writing tma fic so! yeah. i also say eventual jonmartin with a question mark because im not wildly confident w/ writing romance just yet. (also yes the tense mixing is intentional)

“That’s probably enough time spent making my excuses for the state of this place, and I suppose we have to begin somewhere.

Statement of Nathan Watts, regarding an encounter on Old Fishmarket Close, Edinburgh. Original statement given April twenty-second, 2012. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London.

Statement begins.”

That’s when something went wrong.

Jonathan Sims let out an agonized groan of pain as he felt his head all but split open, the pain immediate and debilitating. He clutched his head, grabbing onto his hair with a white knuckle grip, and distantly he wondered what he was holding in his left hand- something long and thin- and why the texture on his right hand felt wrong, but the pain numbed his mind.

The Archivist was faintly reminded of the myth of Athena, how she sprang fully formed from the head of Zeus. 

However, Jonathan Sims could only clutch and curl around himself as he slid from his chair and sank to his knees. 

He couldn’t make sense of anything. Everything was wrong. This was his office, why was he in his office? Why was he in the institute? He was doing his job, he was reading a statement, the first statement- no that was wrong. That was _wrong_. He had read statements and he had taken statements and he had echoed the monologue of a madman and he had heralded the end of days. 

Everything clicked, another jolt of pain, and all he could do was breathe. He felt rivulets of something warm run down his face, tears? Blood? He couldn’t make himself care. 

He felt the Eye upon the nape of his neck and deep in his head and situated in the basin of his chest. His breaths steadied. 

Slowly, The Archivist, Jonathan Sims, began to come back to himself, but was violently interrupted by frantic hands on his shoulders.

“Jon? Jon!” Who was that? 

“Jesus, Jon!” Tim, he knew that, and- 

“I’ll call an ambulance,” Martin. 

Finally he had a coherent thought- no. No, an ambulance would be bad. 

He felt two pairs of hands begin to pull him up as he managed to speak, “No, no,” deep breath, the slightest frantic edge to his voice, “don’t call an ambulance.”

“Wh- What? Why?” Incredulous.

“I, I’m fine,” he breathed, finally sitting up and half leaning on the two people behind him.

It wasn’t really a shriek, what he heard from his left, but it was akin to it.

“There’s blood all over your face!” Tim, worried. Not mad. Not angry, not furious, not desperate for revenge.

Jon realized that his vision was, in fact, a bit blurry and tinted red. Must of been blood. He raised a hand to wipe at his face, and oh, he was holding something. 

“What is _that?_” The voice on his left, who was that-

“My rib.”

“Your _what?!_” A chorus. 

Funny, he remembered having this conversation with Basira. 

“My rib, it’s fine,”

“It’s really not!” Martin. 

“I’ll,” words were fuzzy, somehow. “I’ll explain, just give me a minute,”

His vision was slowly clearing as he pawed at his eyes so he more Saw then saw when Martin began to move towards the door to his small office.

“Do _not_ call an ambulance.” 

They didn’t seem to have much to say as Jon placed the rib on his desk and used his sleeves to finally usher in some sort of cleanness to his face. It didn’t work fantastically, but he figured it was enough when he heard, 

“What the hell happened to your face?” Tim.

“Worms.” He said dryly, rising to his feet. 

“What is that supposed to mean!” More of an exclamation than a question.

A pair of hands was still on his left shoulder, who was that? 

Sasha.

“Oh,” was all he managed to breathe as he looked upon the face of his forgotten assistant. 

“Jon?” She met his eyes, worry and confusion.

She looked nothing like the Not Sasha that had stolen her place. Part of the fun, he figured. He didn’t know how to feel. Relief, maybe? It had worked, he was back.

“I’m going to go make some tea.” Martin said resolutely, with a firm nod. 

He was back.

* * *

The Archivist felt the feeling of being watched intensify upon his shoulders. Shit.

“Elias- we need to get into the tunnels.” Jon rose from his seat with a start. 

“Elias?” Sasha. Wrong, it didn’t fit, but it was her. It was her. 

“What tunnels?” Tim.

Oh, right, yes, this was before Jane attacked. Would there be worms in the tunnels, this early? No, probably not. Hopefully.

“There’s tunnels below the Institute, they connect to the old Millbank Prison.” And the Panopticon. 

“Robert Smirke’s Millbank Prison?” Tim was excited, Smirke had been a favorite of his. 

“Yes.”

Jon knew where the trap door was, he had ventured down into the tunnels many times before. Right now, it was under a box of statements. He had forgotten just how much of a mess this place was in the beginning. 

“Help me with this, would you?” 

Tim and Sasha- it was going to take a while to get used to her- helped him tug the box across the floor, revealing the worn patch of floor that was just a bit different from its surroundings. 

He didn’t have the key, but maybe they could wrench it open?

Jon knelt on the floor, gesturing for the others to join him. “We need to get this open,” he said, running his fingers along the dusty floor, trying to find a place to grip. 

“What is this, exactly?” Sasha.

“Trap door,” he muttered, finally finding a meager hand hold. The dried blood that he had wiped onto his hands flaked off as he scratched at the wood. Why couldn’t the Eye of given him some sort of super strength?

Tim and Sasha joined him.

“I don’t think this is going to work, boss.” 

“Well it better, otherwise we’re going to have to tear down a wall,”

“What?” Martin had rejoined them, carefully balancing four cups of tea. 

Wait- Martin was strong. Jon remembered, at the safehouse. Martin all but picked him up and hauled him to his feet when- when he had ended the world. When they looked at the sky and the sky looked back and it was terrible and beautiful and-

No. Now was not the time to get into all that.

“Martin, could you help us with this, please?”

Pause.

“Why are you all looking at me like that?”

“Boss, I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to Martin.” Tim joked, a bit incredulous as Martin blushed wildly and tried to stammer something, still precariously carrying the cups.

Oh, right. He was… he was rude to Martin, in the beginning. Guilt struck Jon heavily in the chest, a sinking, suffocating feeling. 

Enough- he was here, he was back, and he was going to _fix_ things. Do it right, this time.

“Just,” a breath, “please come help us with this. I’ll explain everything once we’re-” Safe? Out of sight? “In the tunnels.”

“Okay, Jon.”


	2. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm so sorry for the wait everyone! stuff got in the way: life, health stuff, creative block... y'all know the drill. im doubly sorry for not replying to comments, i'm going to try my best to actually respond this time. 
> 
> i'd also like to say that seeing these other time-travel fix-its being published absolutely motivated me to keep writing. gayprophets/themlet's "your future is optional" was so amazing that it finally kicked me into writing mode, go read it if you haven't already!
> 
> also, you can find me as @transarchivist (podcast sideblog) and @fair-lead (main) on tumblr!

Looking at them now, in the dark halls of the tunnels, the fact that he was really back was actually starting to sink in. 

The beams of torchlight were stark in the gloom, the bright yellow glow casting harsh shadows upon the quartet’s faces. Jon studied the expressions of his… friends? He’d like to think of them as his friends. 

Tim looked intent, focused, his eyes sharp. His concern was underlain by suspicion. He believed in the supernatural, more than the other two, and he knew it to be dangerous. It was smart, then, to have a current of doubt at this warped face of his boss, his friend, who had so suddenly changed.

Sasha was… hard to read. Her features were alien, so unlike those that mocked him in his memories. Concern was obvious, her brow furrowed and lips down-turned, but curiosity also hinted in her calculating gaze. He had never been gifted with reading the emotions of others, only finding skill after untold hours of interaction. He hoped to be able to learn her emotions, again.

Martin he could read well. He was different than the Martin he had come to love, full and healthy and untouched by the creeping dread of the Lonely. This Martin’s face was flushed with color, unlike the slightly sallow and grey look his Martin never quite shook off. Of the three of them, Martin wore his worry most openly, spread plain across his face. Another thing the Lonely had changed. 

Jon missed Martin, his Martin. The one who he had ventured into the Lonely for, the one who gripped him tight at the end of the world, the one who-

“Uh, boss, you in there?” Tim ventured.

Right. Yes. Explanation time. Deep breath, organize the information, start from the beginning? No, start with the… time travel. 

Time travel. Time travel that worked. He was back, he was back- 

Jon shook himself, now was not the time to collapse into emotion. Now was the time to be logical.

“I’m not the Jon you knew- know. I’m not the Jon you know.” Good start. Tim looked more suspicious. Not a good start, then.

“I’m from the future.”

Before Sasha or Martin could react, Tim stated, “Prove it.”

“I, ah,” he didn’t know how to phrase this in a way that wouldn’t… hurt. “I know about your brother, about Grimaldi.” Jon cringed as Tim’s expression flashed in confusion, then shock, then hurt, and finally understanding and belief. 

“Okay.” He responded, his voice steady.

“How far?” Sasha asked. Tim’s response seemed to be enough to convince them for the time being.

“At least… three years?” Time was hard, after the apocalypse. He didn’t know how long he had spent in the hellscape of humanity’s fear, it felt like forever and it felt like a day.

“So 2019,” Sasha muttered, looking like she wanted a notepad to write stuff down on. 

“Why?” Martin’s voice was apprehensive, as if fearing rebuke. Guilt settled further on Jon’s shoulders, joining his resolve to fix things, to be kind to Martin this time around.

How to answer that question. So much had happened, so much had changed. He settled on, “the world ended.”

“You- you’ve got to be joking,” Martin began, his voice edging into panic.

“Boss,” Tim said at the same time, expression torn and unreadable.

Sasha just looked at him, analytical and calculating. Maybe hoping this was a joke, maybe denying that it wasn’t. 

Jon shook his head, his expression mournful, cutting off protest. 

“The world ended,” he looked down and away from his audience, his face fallen and voice painful, “so I came back.”

A moment of silence. Jon studied the cracks in the tunnel’s floor, the ambient light from their torches illuminating the rough stonework. He didn’t know what he was waiting for. He didn’t know if he was waiting for anything, really. What did he expect? How would he of imagined this? It hadn’t truly crossed his mind, having been so focused on the now that the apocalypse demanded, of the now that The Spider commanded during the ritual to try and fix the world, even of the now that being thrown back had demanded of him. 

“What are you going to do now?” 

He wasn’t expecting Sasha to be the first to respond, or that she would voice his thoughts so accurately. 

“I’m.. not sure where I’m going to start.” He looked away from the cobbled floor, raising his hand to his chin in thought. “Elias, probably, need to figure out how to deal with him,”

“Wait, wait, Mr. Bouchard? What does he have to do with anything?”

Jon looked at Martin, grave and almost sorrowful, “Everything.”

There was a tense pause.

“I think a full explanation would be the best course of action?” Sasha ventured.

“Right, right, of course.” How does one start to explain the Fears? Jon thought back to his conversations with Gerry and Leitner- oh, right, Leitner was down here. That has to be dealt with. Deal with that later, stay on track. 

“There are these… Entities.” He began to gesture slightly with his hands, brow furrowing in thought. “They’re manifestations of fear, they influence the world and feed off of terror.” That seemed like a good introduction…? Jon hoped it was. 

“Riiiiight..” Martin began, looking like this conversation had finally gotten too weird for him.

Jon realized that maybe the idea of extra-dimensional personifications of fear might of been the problem, and not his delivery.

“We- the Institute serves one, The Eye, Beholding, the fear of being watched,” he could feel it even now, not the oppressive Sight that Elias employed, but the lingering feeling of fear and power that had sat on the back of his neck for so long, and finally settled after the coma. It seemed he still had power here, and he didn't know how to feel about that. Appreciative that he wouldn't have to submit to The Eye all over again, in order to have the power to defeat Elias, to fix things? Or despair, that he was forever condemned to inhumanity?

The faces of his friends were getting harder to read. Sasha still looked attentive, curious, possibly more worried, alien features giving him little to go on. Tim looked deep, but not lost, in thought. His features had a hard set to them, intense. More like the Tim he remembered, shut off. Martin looked worried and afraid, deeply concerned, but clouded with… disbelief? Incredulity? Apprehension? He hoped it wasn't fear. 

“Tim, you encountered The Stranger, I-Do-Not-Know-You, the fear of something being off, of the uncanny.” Jon paused, traitorous mind beginning to recall Tim’s, his Tim’s, final stand and burning glare.

This Tim met his gaze steadily. 

“I…” Jon started. Did they need more proof? What could he give them aside from explanations? If they could believe he time traveled, or at least that he was a very different person than the one they had greeted this morning, why was this the blockade? 

“The proof I have is information- and the scars, obviously,” Jon trailed off for a moment, thinking of his powers, he couldn't Compel them, he couldn't. 

“I know things and I can explain and tell you everything, but I need you, I’m asking you to trust me. Please.”

No one was willing to speak. Sasha looked… surprised, maybe? Martin looked a bit shocked too. Tim’s eyes had widened so minutely, the rest of his expression set firm. Jon remembered the person he used to be, untrusting and prone to paranoia. He chose to trust, far too late for Sasha and Tim, and this Martin was used to callous jabs. Jon felt sick, somewhere deep in his chest.

“Alright, boss, explain these… entities.” As Tim spoke the tense feeling that was so palatable between them loosened its choke-hold upon their dark corner of the tunnels.


End file.
